Lightly
by mildlyholmes
Summary: Five time Erik thinks about kissing Christine, and the one time he does.
**A/N:** Hi, all! Have something cute, sent in via a prompt on tumblr from Sarah. Sarah who I love, who's incredible and probably going to rule the world someday.

* * *

The first time he thinks about kissing her, she still thinks that he is her Angel.

She's standing in front of her mirror, trilling vocal exercises with a soft lilt that is so sweetly pure. He watches her from his position behind the looking glass, studying her form carefully—as he always does when they have their lessons. Sharp, golden eyes check her posture, her shoulders, ensuring that she is doing as instructed.

His eyes flick up to her lips—her lips which are now unusually pinker than usual. And for a moment he stares, tracing the shape of her mouth with his eyes.

Rouge. She must be wearing rouge. It paints her lips with a bright pink that looks both tantalising and youthful. It is not unpleasant to look at.

He wonders what her lips would taste like.

His eyes widen at the direction his thoughts have taken, and he tears his gaze away before strictly instructing her to move on.

* * *

The second time he thinks about kissing her, she is holding his rose.

She has just finished a glorious performance for her debut, and is beaming. Praise has been set upon her—praise that is well-deserved, yet the dazzling smile she gives to her admirers makes his blood boil—and she's absolutely breathless with giddy laughter and wide grins. Her excitement is almost contagious; he feels quite giddy himself, and it is an unusual, not altogether unpleasant feeling.

It is a good thirty minutes before she is left alone in her dressing room, and he's behind the mirror again, watching. She lets out a contented sigh, sinking down onto the chaise in her dressing room. Her expression is one of serenity mixed with exhaustion, and she lets out another sigh.

He sees the moment when she catches sight of the rose on her dresser.

Slowly, she rises from her seat to pad across the room. Small fingers brush along the stem—each thorn painstakingly removed by his own hand—until they finally come to rest on the petals, rich red a contrast to her pale skin. She brings it up to her nose, inhales deeply. And the smile that is on her lips is nowhere near as bright as it had been before, but soft and warm.

His chest is aching with unadulterated longing, and he wants nothing more than to reveal himself behind her mirror, cross the room and press his lips to hers. Instead, he watches as she artfully arranges the rose upon her dresser and silently yearns.

* * *

The third time he thinks about kissing her, she is sitting on the chaise in his home.

He sits in the armchair opposite her, far too uncomfortable to share the chaise. They have only just begun to meet, and though he has known her for _years_ he finds it difficult to speak to her. Every guise he's taken on is _above_ man—the Angel, the Ghost. The Corpse. A fabrication of humanity condensed into different labels, each a figure to believe in. And he finds himself at a loss of how to address her as not an Angel, but a _man_.

He does not let his awkwardness show apart from the slight tick of fingers against the fabric of his trousers, movements jerking and inconsistent. The silence is almost deafening; she is not her happy, chattering self anymore, now just as uncomfortable as he and fidgeting on her seat.

He should have never revealed himself to her. He should have been content to remain as her angel, her nameless figure not corporeal enough to be a man. And - she would want to leave soon if he did not say anything. This desperate hesitance was unfamiliar to him, he who was usually so sure of his words, of his actions. He could smoothly speak to someone he wished to terrify—but no, he did not want her to fear him. He needed to say something, anything—

"Tea?" he blurted out, before freezing at her look of surprise.

 _Stupid, stupid, stupid_.

There is a long stretch of silence after that, and he is ready to flee from her to relentlessly pound at his organ with unbridled anger, before she begins to laugh. It is a delightful, harmless sound, a tinkle of little giggles. He blinks.

Nobody has ever laughed at him with anything but malice, before.

And as she nods, adding a sweet, "Yes, please. Thank you, Erik," with her laughter dissolving into small, delighted sighs, he briefly wonders what it might sound like swallowed into his throat.

* * *

The fourth time he thinks about kissing her, he has found her curled on the floor of the chapel within the Opera House, crying.

Immediately, he rushes to her. Her pale, perfect face is splotched with tears, eyes watery and nose angrily red. Panic laces his bones and he asks - no, _demands_ to know what has happened. Has she been hurt? Did someone say something ill towards her? He would rip them limb from limb!

"Oh," she says in a whisper, shaking her head, "it's nothing, Erik. Don't—don't worry about me." Then, with a hitched breath, she sobs, "I miss him. I miss my father."

Perhaps it's unfair to say that relief is the first thing that graces his senses at her admission. She is not physically hurt; she is merely upset. He does not understand what it is to _miss_ somebody—he has had nobody to miss—but the sight of her crying is enough to claw at his chest.

"Christine," he says quietly, "your father is dead."

It is the only thing he can think of to say, because it is the _truth_. She must accept that, she must believe that. But perhaps it is the wrong thing to say, because she is silent for a long moment, and he panics internally. Would she scream her denial, shake her head and glare at him with hatred? He could not bear to think of such a thing.

Just as he is about to open his mouth, undo his words, she lifts her head to give a shaky sigh.

"Yes," she breathes, "I know. I know he is gone, and I must accept that. I'm just..." A trembling smile crosses her lips as she gazes at him, saddened eyes still pooling with tears. "I am so _grateful_ he has sent you to me, Erik." She takes his hand in hers, and his breath stops altogether.

Never has he been regarded as someone of regard, of _consequence_. His mother hadn't cared, nor did his captor. There was Giovanni, and the Daroga—but they had been lost to him in his darkened state.

But Christine—Christine has _touched_ him, has _smiled_ at him. She is a crack of sunlight in his shadowed world, and all he wants to do is take her in his arms and kiss her until he can no longer breathe.

He settles for staring at their joined hands, and wonders when it was that she had begun to touch him.

* * *

The fifth time he thinks about kissing her, she is looking at him.

Their lesson has been spent in his home, with him sitting by his piano and her standing a few moments away from it. A look of frustration has been evident on her features for the longest time, and when the misses the note once more, a loud, exasperated cry escapes her lips.

"I can't reach it!" she almost growls after the twelfth time, clearly vexed. They have been working at a new song for nearly an hour, and she is close to tears.

Unbidden, he takes his hands away from the piano and stands with a sigh. "You are too tense," he tells her, moving behind her. "You must stand upright, shoulders back..." It is with a hesitance he does not dare show her that he places his hands by her stomach, hovering slightly above the tight material of her bodice. A slight tremor of his hands, and he brushes the constricting garment ever so slightly.

She seems to stand straighter, the breaths escaping her lips becoming decidedly more shallow. The scent of her hair fills his senses; this is the closest he has ever stood by her. Slightly dizzied, he wills his voice to be smooth when he speaks. "Relax. Don't think much of it, or you will strain yourself. Try once more."

He counts her in with hushed numbers murmured from his mouth, and she sings. Her voice is hesitant, slowly escalating in a rush. And as she nears that rising peak, the point where she has failed again and again, her voice travels smoothly and clearly, ringing with a rich clarity that makes him close his eyes with a contented, satiated sigh.

He does not notice she has turned to face him until he opens his eyes once more. A breath catches in his throat at the sight of her staring at him, her eyes filled with a shocked wonder, a look of disbelief crossing her expression. "I did it," she whispers incredulously. "You—you told me to relax, and I'm most relaxed when I'm singing with you. I wasn't singing for you, before, but sang for you and I did it."

He blinks at her, unable to hide the look of astonishment on his face. She sang for _him?_ He made her feel _relaxed?_ It was certainly a reaction he hadn't garnered from anyone else before.

He's pulled from his thoughts at the sound of a breathless laugh from her lips, a smile slowly creeping across her face. "I _did_ it," she repeated, sounding almost giddy. "Oh my god, Erik—thank you!"

And with a squeal, she has launched herself into his arms. He instantly freezes, unaccustomed to the feel of her body pressed so tightly to his. She is warm and her hair is tickling his chin, and he can feel her breaths on his shirt.

A flush begins to creep up his neck, warming his face. He is never warm. His skin is always deathly cold, akin to ice. She comes into his life, and it is a sudden burst of warmth upon his icy flesh.

She pulls back to look at him, grinning widely. And this time, he does not hesitate before leaning in and kissing the smile from her lips.


End file.
